


Unexpected Places

by evilmaniclaugh



Category: War and Peace (TV 2016)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-19 17:39:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5975656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/pseuds/evilmaniclaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the French in retreat, Denisov and Dolokhov join forces to see the enemy out of Russia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unexpected Places

Vassily Denisov is not a man who forgives easily, although his hatred rarely displays itself to others. Instead, it burns like an ember inside him, smouldering a little brighter when provoked. The Rostovs have been the best of friends to him, a family where his had long ago been lost, and so to have them brought to their knees by another lonely soul they had taken into their fold wounds him deeply.

When Fyodor Dolokhov’s small company joins forces with them, for once Denisov is fully prepared to unleash that inner hatred. He has every intention of meting out revenge in a fair and upfront fashion, ready to punish Dolokhov for his many misdeeds, but his feelings soon dissipate when he sees that the man standing before him is much changed. The band of black that encircles his upper arm is tattered and stained, a clear indicator of loss, as is the empty look in his eyes. 

“Dolokhov,” he says, still bitter but not so full of fury. “I trust you and your men will behave with honour?”

Dolokhov steps forward and for a moment Denisov thinks that he’s about to follow regulations and salute his superior officer, but instead he holds out a hand in greeting.

“Denisov,” he says and a look of relief passes across his face. “It is good to know that loyal Russians are still alive. We have lost too many.”

“We have,” agrees Denisov and with an arm around Dolokhov’s shoulder he leads him to his tent and places a glass of wine into that shaking hand. “Our job here is to see the French off our lands. Can you do that without becoming a hooligan?”

“I can, but I will not show them any quarter,” says Dolokhov and his expression is one of a haunted man. “They do not deserve my mercy.”

As weeks pass, there is no denying that Dolokhov and his troops are an asset to their small band of skirmishers. The captain is decisive, valorous and quick witted. He leads from the front, giving Denisov no time to give orders, but neither does he take credit for his actions. He is also a killing machine, treating the French as if they are little more than animals, looting them of their possessions, even their clothing whilst they are still alive.

Denisov has yet to decide whether he despises or admires him for his cruel bravado. “You’ve lost someone close to you, I think,” he says as he and Dolokhov polish off a bottle of plundered cognac.

“I have a mother and a sister and am blessed that they are both still safe,” replies Dolokhov as he huddles closer to the fire to keep warm. “It’s damned cold tonight. Will this winter never end?”

“Do winters ever end?” mutters Denisov. Do wars ever end? All of a sudden he is overwhelmed by nostalgia. “I heard from Nikolai Illyich that his family have been forced to leave their home, but are in relatively good health. Prince Bolkonsky, I’m sad to say, has died from his wounds.”

“He never stood a chance,” says Dolokhov. “I saw him after Borodino. He was a mess.”

Denisov looks up. “Do you ever think how differently things could have turned out for us if our proposals had been accepted?”

“There would still be war,” says Dolokhov and his eyes are far away. “And there would still be death.” He bares his teeth and smiles at Denisov, but it does little to hide the pain. “If there is no more cognac left then I will sleep.”

Without another word he rolls over, pulling his greatcoat around him in a move that signals the end of conversation for the night. Denisov, meanwhile, stokes the fire and stares at the black heart of the flames as he imagines a charmed life with Natalya Rostova by his side.

The next day, from their hideout in the forested hills, they catch sight of a small company of Frenchmen marching a raggle taggle group of prisoners southwards.

“Rich pickings,” says Dolokhov with a lupine look as he eyes the carts that are laden with goods.

They’re distracted, all of a sudden, by the noisy arrival of a dispatch rider and Denisov bears down on the lad angrily. “Do you want to give our position away?”

The boy is small, blond and familiar. He evokes something inside Denisov, a need to nurture and protect, which is somewhat out of the ordinary as he is rarely moved to any emotion these days.

“Colonel Denisov, do you not recognise me?”

Denisov studies the boy more closely and then knows for certain who he is. “Petya Rostov,” he cries clutching at him and hauling him into an embrace. “A real soldier now, eh?”

The youngest Rostov is so short and slight that he looks as if he’s playing dress up in his brother’s uniform. Denisov remembers showing the child different styles of attack in that cosy living room in Moscow and wishes he could transport all of them back there this instant. He even includes the cavalier Dolokhov in his fantasy until the man entices Petya into danger.

“I’ll go down to their camp and see how many men they number.”

“I’ll go with you,” says Petya, his eyes bright with excitement.

“No,” insists Denisov, but even though he outranks Dolokhov he is no match for that wild spirit.

“Let the boy come with me.”

“Damn it,” says Denisov as impotent as ever as he watches the two of them ride away.

When they return Petya is full of himself, adrenaline flowing as he recounts the tale over and over again, looking upon Dolokhov with hero worshipping eyes. Every other word out of his mouth is that damnable name and Denisov wishes he could rid Petya of his exuberance and pass on twenty years of battle hardened experience. The child will soon learn that war is not a thing of glory.

Using Dolokhov’s information they plan a surprise attack at dawn. As the skirmish begins Denisov yells at Petya to keep back, but the boy is fearless, following his hero into the heart of the fighting and when Denisov hears the blast of a rifle he looks up in horror to see young Rostov frozen in time. The look of death is an immediate and terrifying thing, the shock sudden as life escapes like smoke from a snuffed candle.

Denisov watches the body slide to the ground and a huge howl of grief escapes him as he rushes over to Petya, sobbing out every pent up emotion that has been trapped inside since the day Natalya Rostova refused him. How can this child be dead whilst the undeserving live to fight on? Why would a sniper single him out from a pack of grizzled Russian troops? His halo of innocence must have shone like a beacon.

“Fight, damn you,” shouts Dolokhov, looking down on him, every inch the antithesis of innocence. “The boy is dead. There are French to be killed.”

The rage returns and Denisov wants to pull Dolokhov to the ground and pummel him until there is nothing left but bone and blood. Instead he remounts his horse and slaughters the remaining enemy, slicing through flesh with abandon, not caring that these men also have families waiting for them in France, for each one of them, to him, is now a child murderer.

When the battle is won, he watches Dolokhov taunt the fallen, that feral grin in place as he lets them choose their own fate. Denisov cannot decide if the man is a beast or the Devil himself, but when he sees, in close up, the state of the Russian prisoners he realises that Dolokhov has been compassionate in offering their enemy even a chance of survival.

Worn out and dead in all ways but the one that actually counts, Denisov sits on a crate of wine and stares at the skeletal ghosts which haunt the camp, wondering whether it would be the kindest thing to put them out of their misery.

“Dolokhov?”

It’s barely a croak, but the name called is clear and Denisov looks over to see Dolokhov crawl, drag himself over to the prisoner and haul him into his arms.

“Dolokhov. Oh my friend. Thank God. Dolokhov.”

It is the unmistakeable form of Count Bezukhov, half the man he once was in terms of physicality, but perhaps ten times that in strength.

“Over here,” cries Dolokhov, his voice cracking. “My Petrushka needs help now."

After all that they have been through, if these two men can survive this and be as close as they are then there must be some hope for humanity. Denisov sheds a few more tears, grateful that he too can be saved, and as he looks up, watching the medics tend to Bezukhov, he sees that Dolokhov’s head is bent in prayer. It is a sight he never thought possible.

The wounded and starving are carted back to the nearest town, leaving the remaining skirmishers to pack up everything worth taking and finally bury the dead. It is a long and bloody task, which is carried out in silence and when it is over, Denisov stands by Petya Rostov’s grave and looks around him at a clearing which had once been coated in pure white snow, but has now been transformed into a red mire. Dolokhov is not the only animal amongst them. They are all the same beast, regardless of what language they speak.

“Will Bezukhov live?” he asks as snow begins to fall heavily and they set up tents for the night.

“He must,” says Dolokhov as he works, laying out a groundsheet and bedrolls. “I wrote to Helene.” He stops what he's doing and kneels, his hands clasped together. “To Countess Bezukhova to tell her of her brother Anatole’s death. I received word that she too had died in miscarriage. If Petrushka leaves me-”

Denisov knows now for whom he wears the black armband. It is a complicated matter, but he has never been one to pass judgement. “He will live,” he says, patting Dolokhov on the shoulder and offering him a bottle of wine. Tonight they will get exceedingly drunk and mourn their dead in true Russian fashion.

Dolokhov looks up and takes a deep swallow, his eyes connecting with Denisov, full of weary gratitude for that small moment of understanding. “The Kuragins were my family as the Rostovs were yours.”

Very different, thinks Denisov, but he will not call him on it just now. He himself was simply a friendly uncle, whereas Dolokhov was the lover of one, two, perhaps all three of them. Who knows?

“Will you tell them about Petya?”

Denisov nods. “I know where Nikolai Illyich is stationed. He can pass on the news.” He opens another bottle and chinks it against Dolokhov’s. “The letter will be written tomorrow. Tonight we will drown our sorrows.”

Conversation ebbs and flows as they drink more than a little too much, the case soon becoming depleted by over half.

“Did you ever sleep with young Rostov?” slurs Dolokhov, sometime later. “He has a pretty mouth and a fondness for the Tsar.”

Denisov splutters with laughter. “He loved the Tsar, my friend. He worshipped him body and soul.” He shakes his head. “No, I didn’t sleep with him. We shared beds, but there were always plenty of women between us.”

“Pity,” says Dolokhov. “A wasted opportunity.”

“You’re a depraved fellow,” says Denisov. “All that they say of you is true.”

“They only know the half of it,” says Dolokhov and then he falls into a sudden trench of sadness. “I enjoy women well enough, but men are more honest. Helene liked to play, but Anatole. He and I-”

There is a telling silence.

So Dolokhov had loved Kuragin. Despite knowing their history, Denisov is still surprised by this snippet of information. “And Bezukhov?”

“Pierre is the best of us all,” says Dolokhov slowly, hanging his head in pain. “I hope he finds some happiness. God knows, Helene gave him little enough of it. There are few on this earth who are as deserving.”

Denisov thinks of Petya Rostov, the child angel sliding lifeless from his horse, and is ashamed when the tears begin to flow again.

“The boy died a quick death,” says Dolokhov, lurching forward the way he had done when Bezukhov had called to him.

Denisov has no idea why, but these arms offer more comfort than he has ever felt in his life. As drunk as he is, he’s very much aware of Dolokhov and that ugly handsome mouth, and when they kiss it comes as a shocking pleasure. He’s had men before, but not one that he both loathes and admires on such a regular swing of the pendulum.

Fighting with buttons and lacings, they lie together under the flimsy cover of an army blanket and at first it’s simply a tug of hands around cocks as they continue to explore each other’s mouths. The sex between them should be fierce, but there’s nothing desperate about it, just a slow build to release, and as Dolokhov pushes him over onto his back, Denisov thinks of being taken for the first time and wonders whether he should be wanting it as much as he is. Instead, Dolokhov presses on with his body, wetting them with spit then rubbing, gliding, pushing until orgasm is gnawing at Denisov’s dulled senses. Locking both hands around Dolokhov’s neck, he pulls the man into another voracious kiss, muting his own sounds as he shudders and spills.

Blood still pounding, he keeps on kissing Dolokhov until the man pulls back with a cry and then climaxes, a name silent on his lips, his face wet with tears. A killing machine he might be, but he’s far from the heartless monster that everyone sees.

They sleep out the night in each other's arms and once morning arrives, Denisov gathers wine soaked wits and writes to Nikolai Rostov, telling him of his brother’s heroic death during the rescue of some Russian prisoners. He imagines the young man weeping over this letter and cries a little himself as he folds the parchment and seals it. They have all suffered loss, but there is always an iota of hope, and also comfort to be found in unexpected places.

“Denisov, finish what you are doing,” barks Dolokhov. “We have loot to divvy up and Frenchmen to kill. This is not the time to be sobbing over ink stains.”

Unexpected places indeed. Denisov smiles and packs up his belongings, loading them into one of the carts. Handing the letter to a dispatch rider, he then mounts up and follows Dolokhov into another inevitable foray with danger, wondering, not for the first time, which of them is the colonel.

\---end


End file.
